In the space of two years, Officer Hershey came into my life three times.

In the 1990’s, we lived in a neighborhood at the top of a hill in Bellevue, Washington. On this particular morning, after my husband left for work, I ate breakfast, played with the dog, did some housework, and got ready for work. I’ve never been a morning person. I don’t get my head working much before 9 am. I was late two out of five mornings. I tried to make it up by being early at least once a week. Luckily, I worked for an old friend who put up with me.

I looked at the clock and, oh my, I had ten minutes to make the fifteen-minute drive to work. I jumped in the car and started down the long winding road from the top of the hill to Main Street. The speed limit was 25 because it was so curvy and, in places, steep. My foot never touched the accelerator, only the brake as I drove down the hill. This morning I didn’t pay attention to speed.  I was traveling between 40 and 45 mph when I saw the motorcycle cop behind me with his lights and siren. I pulled over. Darn, now I’d really be late and with a traffic ticket on top.

I rolled down the window and in my sweetest tones, “Good morning, Officer. I must have been going a bit fast.”

The officer had a big grin on his face like he’d caught the fish of the year. His badge said Officer J. Hershey. “May I see your license and registration young lady.”

I pulled the license from my wallet and the registration from the glove box and handed them to the policeman.

“You live on this hill,” he said.
“Yes, sir, Officer Hershey.”
“Then you travel up and down this hill a couple of times a day, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know the speed limit here, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know this is a dangerous road when it’s raining or icy, right?”
“Yes, sir and it’s a beautiful day today.”
“Are you on your way to work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you love your husband?” His face became serious.

Now that one knocked me back. What was he getting at? That didn’t sound like a traffic citation question. I looked up and tried to see his eyes through his dark motorcycle goggles.
“Yes, sir.” I said with hesitation.

“Well, this is what I want you to do. When you get to work, call your husband. Tell him you love him and want to take him out to lunch. That lunch will cost about the same as the ticket I should be giving you. Apologize for driving too fast down this hill because it is not safe and tell him you won’t do it again.”

I let out a big breath. “No, ticket?” I asked.
“Not this time but I patrol this road so don’t let me catch you again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

I did exactly as he instructed. I told Ken the impossible story of how I barely avoided a traffic ticket over our lunch.

A few months later, on a Saturday, I was in a traffic jam on one of the main streets in town. I was in the middle of three lanes inching forward little by little on my way to the mall. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a motorcycle cop working his way between the slow moving cars and when he got to my car, he put on his siren and lights. He gestured for me to move out of traffic into the parking lot of a business. Disgruntled, I signaled and began traversing the road through traffic. Other drivers were also made unhappy by this movement. I glanced again at the cop and realized it was Officer Hershey. What the heck? I couldn’t have been speeding, I was barely moving. Why was he pulling me over?

I parked in the lot. He got off his motorcycle and came to my window. “Please give me your license and registration,” he said.
He took a second look at me and said, “Oh, you again”.
“Yes sir. I couldn’t have been speeding. What’s wrong?”
“Please step out of the car.”

I did as I was asked wondering if he was going to give me a sobriety test or something. Very confused. The traffic on the street picked up a little as the light changed but it was still very congested.

“Come back here.” He gestured to the rear of my car.
“You don’t have a current license tag. You are out of compliance; your car license is expired.”

I looked and sure enough. The new stickers were not on my car.
“You’re right. I have the new stickers in the console. I asked my son to put them on for me last weekend, but I didn’t check. The little bugger didn’t do it.”
“How old is your son?”
“Fifteen.”
“Yah. That’s sounds about right. Get them out of the car.”
I did as he asked and handed them to him so he could see they were up to date.

He took a cloth from his jacket pocket and wiped off the license plate then took the sticker and put it on. Then he did the same for the front plate.
“Have a good day.” He said and touched his cap as he got on his motorcycle and moved back into traffic.
“Thank you again, Officer Hershey.”

Nearly a year later the tranquility of a Sunday morning in our hilltop neighborhood was shattered by a violent soundscape. Adults yelling. Young children screaming and crying. Car doors slamming. The crack of gunshots. A car engine roaring. Tires squealing. A car racing down the street. Ken and I looked at each other puzzled and he said, “I better go check what’s happened.” Out the front door, he went. A few minutes later he came back with our neighbor, Maryann, bloody, trembling in her pajamas, barefoot, with a coat thrown over her shoulder.

“She’s been stabbed. There’s blood everywhere inside and outside the house,” Ken said and went to call the police.

I took her into the bathroom to address her wounds. Fortunately, nothing was spurting or flowing. (I faint at the sight of blood). She told me how her estranged husband showed up uninvited and demanded to take the kids. They argued and he snatched the kids and took them to the car. Then he returned to the house and assaulted her with a knife, stabbing her several times before she could grab a gun from a kitchen drawer and shoot him.

Maryann and her family had moved into the rental house next door a few weeks before this incident and we’d only met them casually. We didn’t even know her husband had left the family.

Within minutes the doorbell rang. I answered and who stood before me but Officer Hershey. “Officer Hershey, come in,” I said in surprise.
“It’s Detective Hershey, now,” he answered, a serious look on his face as he entered the house with two other officers.

I sat with my arm around a quavering Maryann as she told her story to Detective Hershey. Ken was questioned by one of the other officers. Then the police took Maryann back to her house to continue investigating the scene. That was all we heard until we were called as witnesses at Maryann’s trial for attempted murder.  

As it turned out, Maryann was crazy, threatening her family when her husband moved out of the house. He wanted to get the children away before they were harmed. She knew he was coming over to get the kids and she staged the fight so she could have a motive for shooting him. She inflicted stab wounds on herself. Luckily she wasn’t a good shot. She wounded him in the neck, but he was able to get to the hospital for treatment and was okay. Maryann was sent to an asylum for the criminally insane.

We moved from the neighborhood soon after, not because of the shooting, but because it was a planned move. I never saw Officer/Detective Hershey again, but he remains a sweet memory. I looked him up online. In 2017, he retired as a Captain after 35 years in the police force with commendations and kudos from dozens of citizens in the city, especially high schoolers who appreciated his common sense approach to teens, his humanity.  He had a significant impact on young people in the city. He was called a legendary gentleman by one citizen. Bellevue was blessed with his service. Exemplary man and policeman. Thank you, Captain Hershey!

Look at that happy face. You can’t help but smile back.